Gray Flowers

Behold my savior, for he comes on a plate (in a capsule) Wouldst thou grant my soul peace before I should cross thee, lest I take flight from this bridge, and plummet through my most ecstatic anticipation What is and what is not There is only an hourglass and a scythe, a picturesque solace made for dying and burials I no longer dream of us For I am swept away in this solitary sea of breathless harmony The fixation flickers and is snuffed out It is just myself and these apparitions Lingering around as if to communicate something to me But I am deaf